


Unwanted Gifts

by Drachenkinder



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hanging (unsuccessful), Mention of human sacrifice, Pre-Thor (2011), Vaguely mythic, inaccurate description of ancient religious practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drachenkinder/pseuds/Drachenkinder
Summary: Loki answers a summons originally intended for Thor. What happens when you try to cheat the gods.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	Unwanted Gifts

Loki looked up from the game of Hnefatafl and tilted his head. 

“What is it?” Thor asked. He moved his king back a square.

“Someone is attempting to get my attention with an offering.” Loki countered with one of his warriors.

“You?” Thor shook his head. “No one gives you offerings.” Thor swept up the warrior with one of his.

“Don’t be an ass. I get offerings on a fairly regular basis.” Loki frowned. “I admit the offerings are usually to leave them alone, however...” Loki moved a warrior past a king’s guard.

"I would think so. You are rather harsh with the mortals."

"Have you any idea how annoying it is to be in the final preparation of a delicate spell, only to be interrupted by some human whining in my ear? Its the only way I can get them to give me some peace."

Thor studied the board for a moment and blocked the advancing warrior with the guard. “They must be desperate to call on you.”

“I’m not sure they meant to, brother. I think they are trying for you.” Loki moved a rider behind the king.

Thor frowned and listened. “Well they are going about it all wrong if they are. I’m not getting anything.” He glanced at the board touched a guard piece, the king, his own rider and swore. He flipped the king down. “Your game. Are you going to answer?”

“I may if you’re not in the mood for another game?” 

“No. Three of six is good enough for me.”

“And I’ve sparked your curiosity.”

“True enough. You don’t mind if I tag along?”

“As long as you swear to not interfere. The mortals did call on me, regardless of what they intended.”

“You have my word. Hands off. Unless it comes down to a fight.” Thor grinned. "You can’t expect me to pass up a fight.”

Loki rolled his eyes, but nodded. Humans weren’t a threat but if he tried to cheat Thor out of a brawl he’d never hear the end of it. He paused to remember what season it was on Midgard’s northern hemisphere. Early spring, which meant they didn’t have to change for the visit. Loki decided to bypass the ride to the bifrost as he now felt a sudden sense of urgency to the call. He grasped Thor’s arm and teleported his startled brother to the base of great dome. Loki gave the summons location to Heimdall. A moment later they arrived on a hill where a cold wind was blowing clouds across a crescent moon.

A tree branch creaked overhead and Thor glanced up to see its ominous burden kicking out the last minutes of its life.

“Damn them!” Thor swore. But it was Loki’s knife that flew like an arrow to slash the rope and drop the struggling child into his brother’s arms. Thor loosened the noose and the boy gasped a ragged breath. Even in the dark they could see the child was not healthy. Malnourished and dressed in rags, he also bore the mark of a malformed leg and a cleft pallet. He was still fighting for breath and Thor looked in concern at Loki.

“I’ll claim him.” Loki said. Thor was in the act of raising his hammer to call Heimdall when against the moan of the wind they heard another moan. In the shadow of the tree was a second, larger bundle of rags. It proved to be a woman, so badly beaten, her eyes were slits and her mouth a bloody gash. As Loki approached she pushed herself upright and rasped. “My son.”

“He is mine,” Loki said, “and so shall you be, if you will swear allegiance to Loki.” 

“I so swear. I would rather serve the god of mischief in death, than Olafr Angrson in life.”

“Not death mortal, but a life better than this, is granted you.” Loki picked her up and carried her to Thor.

The light of the Bifrost encompassed them and darkness again descended on the hilltop. The keening of the wind was joined by the long drawn out howl of a wolf.

***

The longhouse provided a warm retreat from the bitter wind, though those inside seemed little cheered by its meager comforts. Their faces were lean and hollow and they cast wary looks at the big bearded man who sat on the raised platform and took the first serving from a large bowl before passing it on to the warrior to his right. The bowl made its way back and forth until all the warriors had been served and then it was passed down to the rest of the villagers to dig out a handful of lean meat and cooked grain. There was not much of the former left and hardly more of the latter. The door blew open and a man staggered inside, driven by the howling wind. He pushed the door closed with much effort and turned to regard the gathered people. He was a nondescript fellow, small and plain featured, carrying no weapon and dressed in worn clothing.

“Good evening. To whose holding have I found refuge on this dreadful night?” His voice identified him as nobleman, though his clothes told of poverty.

“This in the holding of Olafr Angrson, stranger, and I am he.” The man on the dais said. “Though there is little refuge to be found here.” 

“To you mean to refuse me hospitality?”

There was a stir among those below, but the chieftain didn’t regard them. “I mean that we have barely enough food for ourselves and none to spare for a vagabond.”

Again there were sidelong looks at the chieftain but no one raised their voice. The man advanced to the platform. “Then perhaps it is good I caught and cooked a rabbit before the storm blew up. Surely you will not begrudge a man a place to rest his head.”

“You may find a place on the floor, if there is room.” The chieftain said dismissively. 

“That is too bad. I had hoped to warm myself beside the fire and perhaps share a drink or two.” He turned away.

“We’ve no drink here.” The chieftain growled. 

“Ah.” said the man and he pulled a piebald wineskin out from under his cloak. “But I do.” He uncorked the skin and the smell of sun warmed hay and sweet grapes wafted across the room.

“Wait.” said the chieftain, “Perhaps I have been too frugal in my desire to preserve our supplies. Come sit at the high table. I’m sure we have a bit of bread left. There is room here on the warrior’s bench. What is your name, young noble?”

“So kind of you. I’m called Loder.” The man said mildly and turned back to climb onto the platform. The chief made a place next to himself and the fellow took a seat. At the cheiftain’s command a young girl laid a piece of brown bread and a bit of dry cheese before him. Loder took a pull off the wineskin and handed it to the chieftain who took a long drink. When he would have passed it back, Loder handed it to the warrior on his left.

“Drink is meant to be shared, especially on a night like this. The wind sobs like a mourning woman.” 

Indeed the storm was to be picking up and the sound of it rushing about the building did resemble a woman’s desperate crying. There was rustling and whispering from those on the floor and several looked to the door, but none made a move. A patter of rain hit the roof and then a steady drumming. 

“That rain must be welcome, I noticed the fields were dry as old bones when I approached.”

“It is.” The chieftain said. “We have had a very harsh winter, and a poor spring. Our crops whither in this drought. But now our appeal to Thor has been answered.” The wineskin had made it all the way around the upper table and Olafr handed it to his guest. 

Loder looked carefully over the room and them back to the occupants of the high table. “I can see your people have been suffering, but you and your warriors don’t look to have gone without.”

“A chieftain has a responsibility his people. If my warriors are weak from hunger they cannot protect the village.”

“You speak truth there. To protect your people in war and provide for them in scarcity. Even to the ultimate sacrifice should it be required.” Loder smiled, took a drink from the wineskin and passed it back to the chieftain. 

Olafr shook it, puzzled at its weight. He’d thought the skin would be empty by now, but perhaps this was a new skin, though with the same pied coloring. He shrugged, but out of caution took a smaller drink this time. The second taste was even better than the first and it was with reluctance he passed it on. His men were not so prudent and greedily guzzled the drink, snatching the skin from each other before they’d had their fill. Insults and shoving followed its progress down the table. One man who’d had the skin ripped from his grasp, drew back a fist and lunged toward his companion. That fellow was hard pressed to both defend himself and hold onto the wineskin. He lost his grip and the wineskin fell to the floor spilling the precious drink across the rushes. The warriors erupted into brawl as each man tried to grab the skin and drink his fill. Fists crashed into jaws and elbows into ribs. One unfortunate man lost his footing and a heavy boot crashed into his skull, taking him out of the fight. 

The wind gusted against the building so hard the walls shook, as if it too wanted in on the fight.

Olafr roared at his men to no avail. It wasn’t until he slammed his battleax into the table, burying the blade deep into the wood, that they broke off fighting.

In the midst of the chaos the wineskin had been kicked across the floor to Loder’s feet. He picked it up, took a final drink and pushed in the stopper. The warrior’s eye’s tracked his movements as he tucked it away beneath his cloak.

“Had I known your men were unused to drink I wouldn’t have offered. Has it been so long since you’ve had wine or mead?”

Olafr gave his warriors a glare and they settled sullenly onto the benches. In truth they’d finished a cask in secret just the night before. “As I told you, the winter has been hard. Neither food nor drink is to be found.”

“Hmm.” Loder said. He nibbled at the bread, sniffed the cheese and put both down. “Then why, Olafr Angrson didn’t you send a man south to buy food from the Danes?”

“How would I pay for the food? We are a poor village and I am not a rich man.” 

The storm paused in its fury and into the silence Loder said, “You could always delve into that chest of gold and jewelry you keep hidden in the floor of your storeroom. You’ve enough there to keep your people fed for a month.” 

The villagers’ eyes went from Lodar to Olafr. Shock and guilt were plain to see on the chieftain’s face. He rose to his feet, scarlet faced with rage, and he pointed a trembling finger at Loder.

“YOU LIE!” He shouted.

“I’m known for it.” Loder said steepling his fingers and looking not as all perturbed, for such a small man facing the wrath of the bearlike Olafr. “But this time I speak the truth.”

“Kill him!” The chieftain commanded.

The only response was one of the warriors slithering off the bench to lay under the high table snoring. The chieftain looked franticly around. All of his men were out cold and the villagers were looking at him in confusion and anger. He grasped the handle of his ax and tried to wrench it from the table. The seasoned ash wood handle snapped like a rotted twig.

“Rescinding the laws of hospitality so soon, after inviting me in?”

“Who are you?” Olafr demanded.

Loder smiled and shadows gathered around him as he rose to his feet. He grew taller in the darkness and the black leather and gold of his armor gleamed in the firelight. “I’m the one you summoned Olafr Angrson.”

“Thor?” 

“No. You don’t call Mjölnir’s wielder with the tortured death of a lame child. As you said, a chieftain has a responsibility to his people, but you thought to avoid any true sacrifice of your own goods or service and buy Thor’s favor at another’s cost.” 

Dark haired, beautiful and outlined in green fire, Loki stood to his full height. Olafr fell back in fear. 

“Do not be so surprised that by your trickery you have summoned a trickster. I am Loki and I take the unwanted ones. In return for the lives of the crippled boy and his mother, I give to you my gifts.” Loki laughed and spread out his hands. “Good people of Olafr Angrson’s holding, I gift your fields, with weeds to choke and mice to eat the young sprouts of wheat. I gift your stores with chewing rats and rotting mold. And lastly I gift your sheepfolds and cattle pens with ravenous wolves and your coops with fox and stoat.” 

He tilted his head and the wind picked up again. The sound of a woman’s distant wailing was revealed to be the terrified bawling of cattle and the frantic bleating of sheep. 

The villagers ran for the door only to find it jammed shut as if it were barred. “Why punish us?” A woman screamed as the men pounded on the door desperate to save their animals. She pointed at Olafr. “It was he who had his men hang the boy and beat the mother when she tried to interfere.” 

“But it was you who did nothing to stop them.” Loki answered.

“They are armed men.” A man shouted.

“And you outnumber them 10 to one. Perhaps if you show a little bravery, Thor will consider answering your plea. I, however, am done with you.”

The green fire brightened into a blinding burst and when the people could see again, Loki was gone. The warriors were shaking their heads and stumbling to their feet in confusion when the first of the villagers jumped onto the platform, knife in hand.

***

Loki met Thor at the door of the healing rooms. “How are they?”

“Alive. Eir said she can repair the boy’s throat, leg and face and mend his mother’s injuries, but he was born with damage to his brain, which will take many months to be fully healed.”

“No matter. His mother can look after him in the meantime.” They walked down the corridor together and up the long staircase to the royal quarters.

“What will you do with them? Father doesn’t like mortals underfoot.”

“Add them to my household of course. The All-father won’t interfere with my choice of servants. The woman must have some skills. If nothing else she’s proven to be compassionate and brave. I can always use someone of that ilk. The boy can be a messenger once he’s old enough. He’ll doubtless enjoy the novelty of being able to run.”

“You have two human messengers already.”

“True, but Andres is so old it take him hours to deliver anything.”

“Then why not let him retire?”

“One, he likes being useful. Two, he only works once or twice a week and spends most of his time gossiping with the maidservants. Three, he’s so old it takes him hours to deliver anything and he can get lost upon suggestion. That ability is useful at times.”

Thor chuckled and then tilted his head listening. “It’s that village again. They are calling me this time. Now that’s more like it. Nothing like the fire of battle to stir up belief.”

“Are you going to answer them?”

“No. They can all go to Niflhel.”

Loki slapped him on the back. “Good choice. Would you like to see if you can win four out of seven? I’ll play the king’s side this time.”

“Beating you at Hnefatafl sounds a pleasant way to spend the afternoon. Since you did cheat me out of a fight.” 

“That was only a scuffle Thor, over before you could have arrived. But to make amends after the game I’ll treat you to some of Asgard’s best.” He held up the wineskin.

Thor looked at it and burst out laughing. “No thank you. I’d have to be deep in my cups before I’d venture a sip from that skin. Asgard’s best indeed. That goat was trouble from his first to his last breath and only you would think to make a wineskin from a creature so steeped in mischief.”

“After what he did to me it seemed a fitting end.” Loki took a swig. “Besides, I rather like the taste of chaos.”

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of myth and Marvel mixed. To sacrifice oneself to the gods is to promise them service, or to act in a way that brings honor to their name, but the humans keep getting it mixed up with actually killing people. Preferably, as in this case, other people. Neither Thor nor Loki was amused.


End file.
